The broadening flood swells slowly out o'er cattle-dotted plains, The stream is strong and turbulent, and dark with heavy rains; The labourer looks up to see our shallop speed away.

When shall the sandy bar be cross'd? when shall we find the bay?

Now are the clouds like fiery shrouds; the sun, superbly large, Slow as an oak to woodman's stroke sinks flaming at their marge.

The waves are bright with mirror'd light as jacinths on our way.

When shall the sandy bar be cross'd? when shall we find the bay?

The moon is high up in the sky, and now no more we see The spreading rivers either bank, and surging distantly There booms a sullen thunder as of breakers far away.

Now shall the sandy bar be cross'd, now shall we find the bay!

The sea-gull shrieks high overhead, and dimly to our sight The moonlit crests of foaming waves gleam towering through the night.

We'll steal upon the mermaid soon, and start her from her lay, When once the sandy bar is cross'd, and we are in the bay.

What rises white and awful as a shroud-enfolded ghost?

What roar of rampant tumult bursts in clangour on the coast?

Pull back! pull back! The raging flood sweeps every oar away.

O stream, is this thy bar of sand? O boat, is this the bay?

_R. Garnett_

XLIX

_VERSES_

_Supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, during his solitary abode in the island of Juan Fernandez_

I am monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute; From the centre all round to the sea, I am lord of the fowl and the brute.

O Solitude! where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face?

Better dwell in the midst of alarms Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity's reach, I must finish my journey alone, Never hear the sweet music of speech, I start at the sound of my own.

The beasts that roam over the plain My form with indifference see; They are so unacquainted with man, Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, friendship and love, Divinely bestowed upon man, O, had I the wings of a dove, How soon would I taste you again!

My sorrows I then might a.s.suage, In the ways of religion and truth, Might learn from the wisdom of age, And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.

Religion! what treasure untold Lies hid in that heavenly word!

More precious than silver or gold, Or all that this earth can afford.

But the sound of the church-going bell, These valleys and rocks never heard, Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell, Or smiled when a sabbath appear'd.

Ye winds that have made me your sport, Convey to this desolate sh.o.r.e Some cordial, endearing report Of a land I shall visit no more.

My friends, do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me?

O, tell me I yet have a friend, Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is a glance of the mind!

Compar'd with the speed of its flight, The tempest himself lags behind And the swift-winged arrows of light.

When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there; But, alas! recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest, The beast is laid down in his lair; Even here is a season of rest, And I to my cabin repair.

There's mercy in every place, And mercy, encouraging thought, Gives even affliction a grace, And reconciles man to his lot.

_W. Cowper_

L

_HOME-THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD_

Oh, to be in England Now that April's there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England--now!

And after April, when May follows, And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows-- Hark! where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops--at the bent spray's edge-- That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could re-capture The first fine careless rapture!

And though the fields look rough with h.o.a.ry dew, All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The b.u.t.tercups, the little children's dower, --Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

_R. Browning_

LI

_THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM_

'Twas in the prime of summer time, An evening calm and cool, And four-and-twenty happy boys Came bounding out of school: There were some that ran, and some that leapt, Like troutlets in a pool.

Away they sped with gamesome minds, And souls untouch'd by sin; To a level mead they came, and there They drave the wickets in; Pleasantly shone the setting sun Over the town of Lynn.

Like sportive deer they coursed about, And shouted as they ran-- Turning to mirth all things of earth, As only boyhood can: But the usher sat remote from all, A melancholy man!

His hat was off, his vest apart, To catch heaven's blessed breeze; For a burning thought was in his brow, And his bosom ill at ease: So he lean'd his head on his hands, and read The book between his knees!

Leaf after leaf he turn'd it o'er, Nor ever glanced aside; For the peace of his soul he read that book In the golden eventide: Much study had made him very lean, And pale, and leaden-eyed.

At last he shut the ponderous tome; With a fast and fervent grasp He strain'd the dusky covers close, And fix'd the brazen hasp: 'O Heav'n, could I so close my mind, And clasp it with a clasp!'

Then leaping on his feet upright; Some moody turns he took; Now up the mead, then down the mead, And past a shady nook: And lo! he saw a little boy That pored upon a book!

'My gentle lad, what is't you read-- Romance or fairy fable?

Or is it some historic page Of kings and crowns unstable?'

The young boy gave an upward glance-- 'It is the death of Abel.'

The usher took six hasty strides, As smit with sudden pain; Six hasty strides beyond the place, Then slowly back again: And down he sat beside the lad, And talked with him of Cain;